


A Healthy Fatherly Thing

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Flashbacks, Gen, Parental Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, post-Sherlock's return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade isn’t sure what to make of Sherlock’s return.  But he’s never been sure about anything, when it comes to Sherlock anyway, so this is really nothing new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Healthy Fatherly Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhyolight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhyolight/gifts).



> The sixteenth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from rhyolight04, who left two, and is getting the first, though I admit the second is appealing. Again, this came out somewhat bittersweet; I totally blame that on the rain.

It was strange, going over to Baker Street. Like walking through a dream, and Lestrade wasn’t altogether sure he wasn’t actually dreaming. He had in the previous two years dreamed that he was going to Baker Street, and found Sherlock and John waiting for him, as if nothing had happened, as if Sherlock hadn’t died, John hadn’t moved out, as if everything was exactly the same. 

Except now, Mrs Hudson opened the door to let him in like she always had, and when Lestrade dreamed, usually he didn’t include Mrs Hudson. 

“Oh, Inspector!” Mrs Hudson smiled brightly, if a little crooked and wobbly, and Lestrade found himself encased in a floral-dress hug. It startled him; and for a moment he wasn’t sure if he should hug back. But this was _Mrs Hudson_ , and if nothing else, the human touch reminded him he wasn’t dreaming. 

“Go on up. He’ll be glad to see you.” 

“Doubt it, I’m not bringing a murder with me.” 

“Oh, you,” scoffed Mrs Hudson, but she stayed at the bottom of the stairs and watched him go. A bit like a mother watching her child toddle off to school the first day, and desperate to follow him to see what would happen. 

Lestrade understood the feeling. He was curious himself. 

* 

_“Christ, Sherlock, this is where you live?”_

_“What? It’s four walls and a floor and there’s heat in winter.”_

_“I saw rats the size of cocker spaniels on the stairs.”_

_“Don’t exaggerate. They’re barely bigger than corgis.”_

_“Do you have any food in here at_ all _?”_

_“Food is boring.”_

_“No, food is_ necessary _.”_

_“You sound like my mother, Lestrade. You’re not my mother, you’re my policeman, and are you going to tell me about that double homicide in Southwark or not?”_

* 

221B had always been a flurry of things. Much of it was recognizable from the horrid flat on Montague; some of it had been with Sherlock since university and even childhood (or so Mycroft had told him once). It was a bit like a search-and-find page for kids; every time Lestrade went over, he found another item he didn’t know existed, and oftentimes wished he hadn’t known about. 

It was possible that he enjoyed the drug busts more for the things they turned up, rather than the possibility of what they would. Greg had more faith in Sherlock than Mycroft, in that regard. 

* 

_Sherlock’s eyes were glassy; his hands shook and he kept swallowing, glancing longingly at the water glass sitting on the table, but unwilling to reach it. Lestrade watched him out of the corner of his eye, carefully assessing. It wasn’t so long ago that…but no. He’d promised, he’d_ sworn _, he’d done the teenage-like bit of indignant denials and excessive proof of his cleanliness and the entire railing against the expectations of authority that Lestrade all too well remembered. Granted, Lestrade remembered giving the rant and not receiving it, but it was funny on the other side of things._

_Lestrade had tried to make Sherlock go home. He’d refused. The case wasn’t broken. There was a missing clue, or a clue that didn’t fit, or…something. A little detail that was nagging Sherlock to no end, the thread that if he pulled, the case would fall apart like a poorly knitted jumper and he’d know exactly how it was done and they could go out and find the culprit and that would be the end of it._

_So Sherlock sat there, shaking, shivering in the barely chilled office, while Lestrade worked on paperwork and kept an eye on him._

_“Do you have to keep typing?” asked Sherlock, irritable._

_Lestrade was not a loud typist. “Yes.”_

_Sherlock groaned and fell back on the sofa, covering his face with a pillow. “Here, just smother me. It’s easier.”_

_“No,” said Lestrade._

_A deep sigh. “You’re worthless to me.”_

_Lestrade would have liked to lash out in response; instead he manned up and pretended it didn’t hurt, and kept typing._

_“Does everyone type so_ loudly _?” complained Sherlock, and then he sat up. The pillow fell to his side. His eyes were still glassy, but now they focused on something in the middle distance, and his hands came up, palms at a 45 degree angle, as if Sherlock were holding a ball and was about to throw it to him._

_Lestrade paused and watched._

_Sherlock’s hands moved – less as if throwing a ball now, more like he was trying to direct a symphony, or maybe shuffle words on a chalkboard. His eyes darted back and forth, but the rest of him was completely still. Tightly wound, Lestrade might have said. Poised, as if ready to spring._

_“Go away,” said Sherlock, and he didn’t sound tired anymore – just excited._

_“It’s my office, Sherlock.”_

_“Go away,” insisted Sherlock. “I…I have to think. I need space to think, and your office is too small with you in it.”_

_Lestrade rolled his eyes and stood up. “I need coffee anyway.”_

_A perfect opportunity for Sherlock to make a snide remark about the quality of the department’s coffee. But Sherlock let it pass, and Lestrade went to find a cup._

_Sherlock was still at it when he came back, and he stood in the doorway and watched for five long minutes, fascinated by the way Sherlock would move his hands, as if discarding ideas, close his eyes in frustration, breathe out a gasp as something occurred to him, shift and stretch and work it all out in his head, in Lestrade’s office. Lestrade could almost see the man’s mind working, and despite the fact that Sherlock never moved from the sofa, he might have been using every single inch of space in Lestrade’s tiny office._

_“It’s the boyfriend,” said Sherlock finally._

_“He has an alibi.”_

_“Ask him about the tulips,” said Sherlock, and he stood, reaching for his coat. “Never mind, I will, you’ll just mess it up.”_

_And Sherlock’s eyes weren’t glassy anymore – they were bright with excitement. His hands didn’t shake; they were strong and sure as they buttoned up the coat. Sherlock wasn’t shivering – he was quivering with excitement and pride._

_Lestrade had been around enough to know the difference._

_“All right,” said Lestrade, and they went._

* 

Sherlock stood in the center of 221B, staring at the long wall near the door. Lestrade knew that stance; it was his thinking stance. It was his thinking wall, really. When Sherlock was bored, he shot at it, or lay out under it, or sulked next to it. It was the wall where he pasted out clues to Jim Moriarty, and now it sported maps of London, written over in red ink. Sherlock stood in the center of 221B, facing it, his face twisted in concentration, worrying his lower lip. 

“I’m not thinking, you can come in,” said Sherlock, a bit irritable. 

“That’ll be the day,” said Lestrade, and stood next to Sherlock, facing the wall. “How do you like the new traffic pattern in Tottingham Square?” 

“Pointless.” 

“Unofficially, I agree.” 

“Mycroft making himself feel important.” 

“Not every bureaucratic official is Mycroft in disguise, you know.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Biased.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Maybe.” 

They fell silent, studying the map. The flat was achingly familiar, full of all the things Lestrade remembered. It still felt cold, empty…more a shell than an actual home. 

“Just you here?” asked Lestrade cautiously. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly. 

Ah. 

* 

_Sherlock didn’t have friends. Sherlock had told him that over and over, over the years, and insisted that he worked best alone because everyone else was an idiot._

_It might have been true. In all the mess at the flat on Montague, he’d never once seen a Christmas card or a stray photograph or even a pair of beer bottles sitting empty on the counter. Sherlock didn’t have friends._

_“He’s with me.”_

_The man was a bit older than Sherlock: short, square, unassuming, and clearly had no idea what he was getting himself into, but seemed to have infinite amounts of self-confidence even so, because he picked up the paper scrubs and started to put them on as if he did it every day of his life, and Lestrade was willing to bet the man had never been to a crime scene before._

_Lestrade was even willing to bet that Sherlock couldn’t possibly have known the man more than 48 hours. But anyone who warranted inclusion in a crime scene – who was allowed entry to his new_ flat _, for Chrissake – had to be someone special._

_“But who is he?” asked Lestrade, unable to retain the curiosity._

_“He’s with me,” repeated Sherlock, and Lestrade knew that was all the explanation he’d ever get._

* 

The flat was quiet, except for the sounds of traffic outside, the occasional burst of laughter from a pedestrian, a crash of pans from Mrs Hudson’s flat, the sounds of the sandwich shop closing up for the day. Sherlock stood still beside him, quiet, tense, folded in on himself. Concentrating. 

Lestrade was familiar with Sherlock’s mind palace. He saw its birth in his office, five years before. Saw it grow beyond the borders of that tiny room. He imagines it’s the size of London now. Hell, half the time he thinks it _is_ London, the way Sherlock knew the city, and now the London in Sherlock’s head doesn’t match the London in reality. 

Sherlock continued worrying his lower lip, small tremors under his skin. Lestrade was a bit lost, standing next to him, afraid to say anything to remind Sherlock he was there, because Sherlock didn’t like anyone in his mind palace but him. 

Not even John. Or so John said, once. 

If Sherlock’s mind palace was London, Lestrade didn’t think it was entirely uninhabited, no matter what Sherlock said. In Sherlock’s head, London had a population of two. 

Now that Sherlock was back, it had a population of three. Lestrade knew perfectly well he was never the third person. And that was all right, he didn’t mind, because he’d met the third person, and she was exactly right, even if Sherlock hadn’t figured that out yet. 

Lestrade waited. It took a while. 

“There,” said Sherlock, pointing at a corner. “It must be there. John…” 

Sherlock turned to him, and when his eyes fell on Lestrade, he blinked, trying to reconcile the image. 

Lestrade’s heart fell a little for him. It was a bit like watching a child realize that it does, in fact, hurt when they fall off the swings, and no one was there to catch you. Lestrade watched the realization flick across Sherlock’s face, and the pain in his chest was surely an echo. 

Sherlock straightened up again. 

“I’ll text him,” said Sherlock, confidence and bravado again. “He’ll come.” 

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, and he straightened his back too. Lestrade believed in Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock was never wrong. “He will.”


End file.
